A Dance With Death
by Bakuretsu-Shio
Summary: He is the only one who can truly satisfy him. He is beauty, he is death. - One-sided Hisoka/Illumi (ONESHOT)


He could have watched him for eternity if he had the chance.

The way he so gracefully slipped his form through the crowd; long silky black hair swaying in the motion that followed. His pale skin without any blemish glistened in the dark of the moonlight and created a devilish halo around his head. Long, effeminately thin fingers felt through the air with a weightless touch. His soundless steps supported his dance, and the magician found himself mesmerized as always by his partner. This being was the embodiment of grace and shadow, the ultimate protagonist of the ballet before his golden eyes. How one could be so many of those traits was astounding, alluring to the eyes of man who merely watched in awe.

He wanted to see more, to witness the beauty of his essence when he moved so elegantly like a flower blooming from its renewed vigour. A flower so radiant in the moon's light. So harmful… so deadly, it forced a shudder from his seduced physique.

A flick of his delicate wrist, and another body fell, their light extinguished before their weight impacted with the gravel beneath their feet. The Transmuter was breathless towards his acts, and watched as an audience would for a play. Gravity was a false belief, as the slim flower flashed in instances of his sight where normality couldn't follow in its rhythm. The ability of logic was thrown away, and his eyes preyed in admiration for the man he would never keep his eyes off.

No matter the red liquid spraying at his curled shoes, seeping under the soil and tainting it with the curse of murder. It was a painted masterpiece that would bid for billions, all by his hand, from the artist so subsequently unfazed by his latest creations. His impassive features were a lingering sketch, and made him wonder how long they would remain as such. It had been years since their meet, and not once was that expression lost in the swirl of death and foul play by their cooperative hands. His hands; so striking in their ability to morph into terrifying weapons of assassination. They divided through flesh and blood alike with a refined wave and met the cooling air following ripples of gale wind.

The magician's pulsating tone escaped thin, dry lips. The man tried desperately to keep his composure. Nature was his supporting leniency in observation, a coy, fox-like grin spread cheek to cheek. However all was lost as the protagonist came to a halt, and a curious tilt of the head was question enough for his out of line act. The ticking of time passed, and out of the glooming darkness came the lone antagonist of the play. In a fluid dance of splendor, their head rolled by his feet so naturally, the magician was again exasperated by the light. A manipulative light that was not of the moon, but that of his stunning, blooming flower.

And with that, his performance came to a close.

An encore was pleaded by the silent whispers of his inner thoughts, but there were none left to challenge, other than himself. He however was so overwhelmed by the nature of that man he called his associate, it was not the time. The audience applauded with utter satisfaction for their entertainment – that being the single jester – and chuckled in delight for the intrigue of his desire to replay the memory and watch from the start. Such instinctive, swift motions, such class for that of a professional assassin; he was urged to groan at the craving to fight – to _slaughter_ that same flower. But alas, emotions were driven back as the protagonist's form came before that of his audience. An agitated twitch of dead, fish eyes raised the brow of his opposite, a humble smirk growing broader as squinted eyes glistened in the moon light.

"You made a mess of yourself, Illumi," a smooth, egotistic bounded tone erupted from his throat, yet pleased by the sight nonetheless.

Dark eyes inspected the scene, but shrugged with uncaring attitude. Attention slowly shifted to the slanted eyes of the magician, and remained there, "Were you watching the whole time, Hisoka?"

Without an answer it wouldn't have mattered. But to humour the assassin, the other's smile grew wider with a nonchalant nod and a tender clap of hands – he wanted his encore. But another time would approach when the sequel came out, and he could once again lay eyes upon the exquisiteness of Illumi's dance. It was a natural gift; one that could only bedazzle him, cherish the moments in the corner of his mind. He had his own ballet of cards and magic, but none could compare to this one's. It flourished, in turn elevated his longing need and a single slip up of aura forced wide, fish eyes in his direction. But in that instance it disappeared, and a sardonic apology slithered from his lips.

As his weight became his own and composure stood straight, Hisoka went his way on a journey to destinations unknown to both him and the other. A lethargic wave was his goodbye, but Illumi gave him words in return, turning so their backs met one another in a mirroring happenstance.

"Next time, you kill them instead of watching. They weren't worth the trouble."

Hisoka located that irritation in his impassive tone and chuckled.

Next time, he would dance with death.

* * *

**Felt like doing a bit of creative writing between Hisoka and Illumi. **

**Reviews are welcome! :)**


End file.
